


Our Own Glass of Tea

by autumn_witch_22



Category: The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970)
Genre: And By That I Mean They've Both Waited Five Whole Years to Tell Each Other How They Feel, Bear with Me Because I Have Absolutely No Idea How Long This Story Will Be, Bisexual Character, But They're Trying Now and I Love Them for That, Characters Struggling with Period Typical Attitudes Toward the LGBTQIA+ Community, Confessions, Demisexual Character, Drug Use is Mentioned but Not Described in Detail, First Kiss, First Time, Holmes and Watson are Both Disasters With Their Feelings, Holmes’ Cocaine Addiction, M/M, Mutual Pining, Watson Tries to Help Holmes Break His Cocaine Habit, rated M for future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumn_witch_22/pseuds/autumn_witch_22
Summary: AU of "The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes." What if Watson has been harboring feelings for Holmes for a long time? And what happens when he finds out that Holmes feels the same way? From the night with the Russian ballet, to the mysterious lochs of Scotland, to the fragile fate of the British government, a long and exciting journey awaits the good doctor and his consulting detective.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 27





	1. Serenade for Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are pieces of the original dialogue in here, but some of it has been tweaked for the sake of the story. (I've also added several things, of course!) 
> 
> Also, this is going to be sentimental/sappy AF but I just need a happier story for these two. (Please bear with me, it's the first SH fic I've written in *years*.) Thank you so much and enjoy! :)
> 
> (Chapter titles will be based on various musical pieces, which you can listen to as you read if you'd like! Chapter 1’s musical inspiration: Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings in C, Op. 48, 1st movement.)

I often prided myself on the ability to articulate my thoughts and experiences well. Part of that sentiment, I supposed, came from taking up my pen as a writer after being discharged from my Afghan regiment. That sort of profession, even a part-time one, certainly required a certain succinctness of expression as well as a bit of a poetic flourish--although my friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes often scoffed at my creative embellishments. I was particularly proud of the accounts I had penned concerning myself and Holmes, and I suspected that--deep down--my friend was pleased to have gained such a notable reputation throughout London as a consulting detective from those very accounts of mine. 

However, as much as I can accurately describe my experiences and those of others, the events of that evening with the Russian ballet had left such a profound and unexpected impact upon me that it was difficult for my mind to truly make sense of it all. I shall, however, still attempt to record these events here to the best of my recollection:

Still reeling with the excitement and alcohol brought about by the evening, I had stumbled my way over to the director of the Russian ballet, Nikolai Rogozhin. The women of the company had fallen back into the crowd, perhaps exhausted from the revelry, while the men all joined together in the dancing. I had been a bit puzzled by the sudden exchange, but it was not unwelcome by any means. Back in Afghanistan, the men in my regiment had been fortunate enough to indulge in a very small number of private festivities, with plenty of dancing and cheap spirits to go around between us. 

But the astonished expressions on the women's faces had certainly given me pause. They parted like the Red Sea before me and refused to meet my gaze. Was something the matter, I wondered? Had Holmes said something to offend them, or to perhaps offend their fellow ballerina Madame Petrova? Surely, I reasoned, Rogozhin might be able to shed some light on the whole matter.

"What's going on?" I asked, still a bit breathless from my exertions. "What happened to the girls?"

Rogozhin, pouring himself a drink from a clear glass decanter, looked up quickly at my words.

"Do you not prefer it this way?" he asked in return.

I stared at the man, knowing that my confusion must have been quite evident. "What way?" 

Rogozhin bumped me with a good-natured elbow. "Oh, Doctor, you don't have to pretend! Mr. Holmes told us everything... about _you_ and _him_."

The men of the company circled loosely around us as Rogozhin spoke. They were all quite handsome, well-built young men; up close, I could appreciate even further the delicate handiwork of their costumes and the subtle placement of makeup on their cheekbones. The whole effect was quite remarkable--whoever kept up the appearances of all the dancers truly knew what they were doing.

Clearing my throat, I turned my attention back to Rogozhin. 

"I'm not quite sure I understand you," I said. "What about Holmes and I?"

Again Rogozhin jostled me with his elbow, and a grin leaped onto his face this time, as well.

"Oh, come now, Dr. Watson! You're a little bashful, a little bourgeois, no? Maybe between doctors and detectives it's unusual, but in ballet, it's _very_ usual. And for you and he to be together for five years now... well, that is certainly a good thing, is it not? So please do not think us close-minded, for we welcome all here!" 

The pieces suddenly clicked in my mind. The men joining the dance, the looks on the women's faces, Rogozhin's vague but meaningful words... my cheeks started flushing up at the simple realization. 

"Oh," I gasped, "oh, _Lord_... I simply had no idea... " 

"You need not worry, Dr. Watson," assured Rogozhin. He patted my shoulder in what I assumed to be a gentle and kind manner. "We are not the sort of people to judge or condemn. To use a picturesque expression, we all have our own 'glass of tea'... yes? Madame Petrova is, of course, a little disappointed that things did not work out between Mr. Holmes and herself. But she has asked that I wish you both the best. So please, relax and enjoy yourself, and perhaps I might introduce to you to these fine gentlemen!"

Rogozhin began rattling off the names of the dancers, but in my current state I could only catch a few of them--Boris, Illya, Sergei. My mind was elsewhere... to Holmes... I _had_ to find Holmes. I didn't know the entirety of what he'd told to Rogozhin and Madame Petrova, but I knew that this was a matter that required my immediate attention.

I offered some excuse to the director, one that I have since forgotten now, and I quickly found myself traversing the darkened streets of London to return to the lodgings of 221B Baker Street where my companion and I resided.

* * *

For the whole length of my journey back to Baker Street, my mind kept returning to Rogozhin.

 _Together for five years... glass of tea..._ Only a fool would not be able to recognize the implications brought about by such claims. Somehow, Holmes must have indicated that he and I were together--as a couple--and that he fancied me in some romantic fashion. Were these supposed feelings he had true, I wondered? Had he always felt this way about our relationship? And if so, why had he confided these feelings with utter strangers before confiding them with me? 

I finally turned the corner onto Baker Street, and I paused for a moment by one of the lampposts to steady myself. Whether I was attempting to do so in a physical or emotional sense, I was not certain. But my hands were shaking quite horribly; I almost thought I might turn to fog and float away at any instant if I were not careful. 

_Why did he not tell me about this?_ I wondered again. _Have I ever given him a reason to mistrust me, or conceal himself from me? Did he never think I might..._

I swallowed back a hard lump that threatened to overtake my throat. The time for confronting those feelings--both Holmes' _and_ my own--could wait.

Mrs. Hudson greeted me once I finally entered the tenement where 221B sat. Her presence soothed me somewhat, and the weight on my soul seemed a touch lighter as I ascended the steps up to my quarters. 

"Glad to see you back, Dr. Watson," said Mrs. Hudson warmly. "How was the performance tonight?" 

"Splendid," I managed to reply. "But I _am_ feeling quite exhausted. I think I shall retire to bed soon." 

"Very well, sir," she said. She started off down the first floor hallway, but turned back abruptly and added, "Oh, and when you get up there, do tell Mr. Holmes that the next time he wants to blow smoke and ashes all over the place to kindly open up those windows. I swear I must've swept up two or three inches of those horrible ashes from your rooms by the time I was done. And don't even get me _started_ on the smoke... it just about _wilted_ my poor wallpaper!"

I assured Mrs. Hudson that I would impart this all to Holmes at some juncture and continued my way upward. I had just reached the door when I distinctly heard Holmes call out, _"Come in, Watson!"_ I smiled then--hardly anything got past my dear friend. My voice, despite being muffled by the distance of the first and second floors, as well as the sound of my approaching footsteps had already given me away to him. I opened the door and peered inside.

"Did you enjoy yourself tonight, old fellow?" asked Holmes over his shoulder. He was sitting at the table with his tobacco experiment, one arm stretching toward the back of the apparatus; he appeared to be tinkering with one of the valves. Thankfully, Holmes had refrained from lighting the various cigars and pipes and unleashing another gray, heavy atmosphere into the room. At the very least, I could reassure Mrs. Hudson on that point. 

"Hmm? Oh, yes! Yes, I did." I lingered on the threshold, uncertain how to organize my thoughts and bring up the subject I so keenly wanted to bring up. "I'm sorry that I didn't leave with you earlier tonight. I'm afraid I got a bit, ah, _sidetracked_ by the dancers." 

Holmes grunted. "Yes, I'd noticed that. Do come in, won't you? You're letting in a draft from the hall." 

I was quick to comply, stepping inside and shutting the door briskly behind me.

Once I had crossed the room and settled down in my usual chair by the fireplace, I asked, "So, did everything go well with Madame Petrova?"

"Oh, good Lord." At first, I interpreted the statement as a groan; but as Holmes turned around, I saw that my friend was struggling to stifle a fit of laughter. "Did you know that the only reason we were invited to that little soirée in the first place, Watson, was so that Madame Petrova could set me up as her husband? And she even had the nerve to offer me a genuine Stradivarius for my troubles! Isn't that absurd?" 

I let out a small noise of surprise, which soon turned into a chuckle. Now I understood what Rogozhin had meant by his comments regarding Holmes and Madame Petrova. My shoulders slumped a little with relief.

"Well, that certainly _is_ unexpected!" I paused, for perhaps an interval or two longer than I had intended. "I, er, take it that you... _declined_ her offer, then?" 

"Oh, of course!" Holmes replied. "You said yourself that eleven men died for her hand in marriage...not necessarily counting the twelfth one in this case, of course. I think a bad omen like that should be taken seriously, don't you?" 

I nodded. "Oh, yes, definitely! I'd loathe to think of any misfortune that might befall you, my dear fellow. I couldn't bear losing you." 

For a few beats, Holmes didn't say a word. Part of me wondered how he had interpreted my statement, and the other part wished I knew exactly to what extent I _had_ meant it (but my now blushing cheeks must have surely spoken for themselves). Then, with his sharp gaze upon me, Holmes rose to his feet and stepped toward the hearth near which I sat. There was a look of thoughtful concentration etched onto his face.

"There's something bothering you, Watson," he declared at last. "Something that's shaken you quite badly, I gather."

I attempted to look dumbfounded, and even managed to produce some inarticulate noises of dismissal. But of course, Holmes wasn't moved by the performance.

"I should think I know my dear doctor by now," he said, with just the slightest smirk plucking at the corners of his mouth. "The nervous twitch of your eyebrows and the slight tremor in your hands are quite obvious indications to me that you are not feeling at ease. These factors, along with your currently persistent habit of avoiding eye contact with me for more than a few moments, informs me a great deal. So naturally, I would deduce that some event at tonight's festivities has given you an unpleasant start and you are hesitant to discuss it openly."

My cheeks burned even further under his scrutiny. Of course I should have known that Holmes would do this, would be able to deduce my mood in an instant. But that made it no less challenging to bolster my nerves for the conversation that was to come. 

"I... I _would_ like to try and discuss it," I began. My voice wavered, threatening to shrivel back into my throat, but I pressed on regardless. "But please understand, Holmes, that this won't be easy for me. I don't even know where to _begin_ , quite frankly."

I didn't have the resolve to look him in the face as I spoke, so I kept my eyes trained on my fidgeting hands. I cleared my throat and went on, "Before I left the concert hall tonight, I was speaking to that man Rogozhin. An interesting fellow, I must say. He... he told me about something that you had said which surprised me. Something about... the two of us." 

Holmes said nothing, but when I glanced upward quickly there was visible tension gathering in his shoulders, like a much too tight bowstring preparing to snap. 

"Rogozhin thought that you and I were... well, _together,_ " I said. "Romantically speaking. That we _had_ been for the past five years."

Holmes seemed to grow more agitated as I spoke. His hands twitched restlessly at his sides, and occasionally his long, slender fingers would tap out a series of quick, nervous rhythms against the tops of his thighs. He was also the one now refusing to make eye contact.

"I truly meant nothing by my remarks," he said at length. "When Madame Petrova said she was looking for a husband, I knew I had to get out of the arrangement somehow. It was nothing against _her_ , mind you, for even I can see that she's an attractive woman. But how would you feel, Watson, if a complete stranger told you out of the blue that they wanted you to father their child? It was all just too much. So, after you burst into the room like that tonight, I seized on the first idea that came to my mind."

I took a moment to process his words. Rogozhin had been mistaken, then... these supposed feelings that Holmes had for me _weren't_ true. They had simply been a ruse on Holmes' part to escape an awkward situation. A cold flare of anger seized me in that instant, and I rose at once to my feet to approach him.

"Why?" I demanded, although I didn't exactly know what I expected from him at this point. "Why would you choose _that_ as your lie, out of _all_ the other possible lies you could tell?" 

"Well, I did _try_ to come up with some other explanations before that," he protested. "But I certainly didn't realize the damned fool would decide to go and blab about this to everyone! So, I suppose there will be a little gossip about us in St. Petersburg for a time. But I don't know what--"

"No, you truly _don't_ know, Holmes," I interrupted, "You see, but you do not observe."

He flinched as if I'd just struck him in the face and fell silent. He had often used that phrase with me whenever I was being particularly slow to make my own deductions on some matter or another. To hear his own words thrown back at him now must have been a shock, and I was secretly glad to have rendered him speechless.

"That is what I'm laboring to tell you, Holmes," I said. My initial anger was subsiding now, and I let out a long, tired sigh of frustration. "When Rogozhin told me what you said, it surprised me. It surprised me because I thought that you _finally_ felt the same way as... as I do for _you_."

The hush that fell over the room following my pronouncement was absolutely deafening. I desperately searched Holmes' face for a sign, for _something_ to indicate whether this admission had affected him in any way. But he had become a blank canvas, with no flicker of lively movement or color upon him. With a rapidly sinking heart, I closed my eyes. _I've gone too far... what on earth was I thinking? He'll never--_

"How long?"

I was so startled by Holmes' voice that I jumped. I opened my eyes to stare at him. "H-How long what?"

"How long have you felt this way about me?" he asked.

It was not at all difficult for me to remember the first time that I realized the depth of my emotions for Holmes--seeing him so sincerely invested in his work, running amongst the test tubes and other chemical instruments in the laboratory at St. Bartholomew's; his hearty smile and firm handshake upon our friend Stamford introducing us to one another. I often returned to my first published account, _A Study in Scarlet,_ simply to relive the warmth and genuineness that that moment had produced in me. 

Afterwards, when we had officially moved into our lodgings at 221B Baker Street, I also remembered the list I had made concerning Holmes' particular areas of expertise (and lack thereof). He had laughed upon discovering the draft of my list one evening, shortly after the Strand published my full story, and remarked, "How very methodical of you, Watson. _'Sherlock Holmes--his limits.'_ Ha-ha! But what was it Whitman said? 'Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself -- I am large, I contain multitudes.' Who is to say what the true limits of any one person might be? It would take a lifetime--perhaps _several_ lifetimes--to categorize every virtue and flaw."

And I had vowed, right then, that every time I looked upon my friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes, I would try my damnedest to unravel the mystery of those multitudes contained within him. I alone would spend countless days and nights categorizing those virtues and flaws in my mind; and with each cherished moment between us, I would succumb a little more to the passion and devotion that I carried in my heart for him. 

"Ever since Stamford took me to see you," I said aloud softly, "and you deduced that I'd been to Afghanistan. And every moment after that, I've kept thinking to myself how I've never met so charming and wonderfully clever a person as you before. And every day, I long to be someone you can trust and someone you might... _love_."

Holmes drew in a sharp, startled breath at my words. His eyes flickered downward for a moment; when he raised them again, I realized that they were glistening with tears. My mouth fell open in silent astonishment.

"But I never thought... I had always _figured_ that you... " Holmes' voice was scarcely above a whisper. He shook his head in a dazed, awestruck sort of way. "Do you mean all of that, Watson? Truly?"

A wave of tenderness swelled through me upon seeing my friend, usually a man of such a stoic and unaffected nature, letting me witness a side to him that was vulnerable and sincere. The sight moved me so profoundly that tears began to well in my own eyes.

"Everything I've said... everything I _feel..._ is genuine," I insisted. "Please, my dear Holmes, believe that." 

He held my gaze as his shoulders relaxed, the bowstring finally loosening. Quite without thinking, I began leaning closer to him. I could smell the lingering odor of tobacco, and underneath that, the faintest whiff of the violet-scented soap he had used earlier in the evening. I drew closer still until I had tucked my face against Holmes' neck and settled my lips against the spot just below his right ear.

Holmes stiffened at the touch and drew in another sharp breath. I froze for a moment, caught between the urge to move away or remain in that position. But I quickly made up my mind, and soon, I was gently, slowly kissing my way from Holmes' neck down to his collarbone. Holmes released the breath he was holding; when it turned into a thrilled, shaking moan, it was the final reassurance for me that we understood one another and that all was right in our little universe. His arms went around me, and mine around him, until it seemed that we should coalesce into one being and never part from each other again.

Holmes' breaths were coming in quick, labored bursts. His head slumped forward against my shoulder.

"Holmes?" I whispered, pulling back ever so slightly. "Are you... are you all right?"

I felt, rather than saw, Holmes nod.

"Dear God...can you even _begin_ to know how long I've dreamed of this?" he sighed, and his words made me shudder. "Of holding you in my arms? Of your lips...?"

Here he broke off, struggling to catch his breath. At last, when he seemed to have gained some control back, he said softly, "But we _can't_ , Watson... not like this... "

A hard knot twisted inside my chest. I fisted my hands in the back of his vest, desperate to stay here, wrapped in his warm embrace and pressing kiss after kiss against his flushed skin. Now that I knew how he felt about me, that it _hadn't_ been a lie after all, I never wanted to let go of this brilliant, frustrating man ever again.

"Why not?" I pleaded.

Reluctantly, Holmes pulled away from our embrace. His eyes twinkled, and that perpetual air of sadness had been banished from them for the first time in quite awhile. But the smile on his lips was a rueful, resigned one. 

"In case you hadn't noticed, Watson," he said, "you're not entirely sober. What kind of gentleman would I be if I took advantage of another gentleman in his state of drunkenness?"

I huffed, trying to muster up an indignant air. "I'm sober enough."

I leaned forward to kiss Holmes again, this time on the lips, but the movement left me reeling from an intense rush of nausea and I began to tip sideways. Holmes firmly gripped both of my arms to keep me upright. The maelstrom in my stomach receded a little, and I relaxed into his embrace again. It felt so right to have him hold me close. A wonderful, unbidden shiver ran through my body at the thought of what he could possibly do with those lovely hands of his. 

"You see?" said Holmes lightly. "You're in no state for courtship."

I pursed my lips and mumbled, "Am too," and before Holmes or my nauseous stomach could prevent my actions, I leaned forward once again to peck my dear friend on the lips.

This time, I was successful. The embrace lasted for only a few seconds, but it was the most extraordinary feeling in the world. It obviously had a profound effect on Holmes, as well. He sighed, a slow, content sound, and then he revealed one of the most genuine, unguarded smiles that I had ever seen on him. 

“Go to sleep, John,” he insisted. "And then we can start to work everything out in the morning."

Holmes led me to my bedroom with one hand placed against my back. His gentle care for me was quite appreciated; my stomach still churned a bit and my thoughts were getting unpleasantly fuzzy. I all but collapsed onto my bed when it was within reach and closed my eyes; I did not even bother to pull the covers out from underneath myself. I didn't think I'd have the proper energy to do so, in any case.

Holmes chuckled. I heard some movement in the room and then, a large, soft weight settled over me and I knew that Holmes must've found a blanket with which to cover me. Consciousness was slipping quickly from my grasp. I attempted to mumble a heartfelt 'thank you' to my dear friend, but his reply was lost to me as I finally sank into the blissful and hazy realm of sleep. 


	2. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'll just write a couple of chapters dealing with a few scenes from the film, no problem! 
> 
> Also me: *says screw that and decides to reimagine, like, a fairly good chunk of the film, because w h y n o t*
> 
> (Musical inspo. : Tchaikovsky's Overture in E Major, Op. 76, also known as "The Storm".)

I awoke the following morning with a splitting headache. That was, of course, to be expected after my liberal consumption of alcohol, but I wished now that I had shown a little more restraint. With a groan, I rolled carefully out of my bed and shuffled over to the mirror to examine myself. 

My nice garments were in utter disarray. I hadn’t had the energy to remove them and hang them up properly last evening; I winced upon seeing the large creases and wrinkles in my white dress shirt and my jacket. To my surprise, the flower tucked behind my ear had remained intact throughout the night. I removed it and set it down upon my dresser, then went about to the task of divesting myself of my attire. Perhaps I could ask Mrs. Hudson if she would mind helping me return them to a more presentable state.

I changed into a casual shirt and set of trousers, then fumbled into one of my robes. I attempted rather pointlessly to smooth out my disheveled garments, but I soon gave up the effort and hung them from my wardrobe handle. After a quick combing of my hair and moustache, I stepped out into the hall and entered the sitting room.

Holmes had already woken up, and he was waiting for me at our small dining table. My stomach grumbled with appreciation at the sight of eggs, toast, and tea. My heart, on the other hand, fluttered as Holmes met my gaze and smiled.

“Good morning,” he said. “Sleep well?” 

Holmes had thrown on his own robe, a pale, dusty brown one that flattered him superbly. He had also neglected to tidy up his hair; those wild, messy curls had often been quite distracting to me, in that Holmes seemed to become even more handsome with an untamed look. Today was certainly not the exception in this regard. 

I cleared my throat and tried to reply to him, but all that came out at first were a few awkward, unintelligible sounds. 

“I suppose I slept fine, thank you," I eventually managed. “But my head feels as though it is being squeezed in a vice.” 

Holmes nodded. “I suspected as much. Come sit down and have some breakfast. Mrs. Hudson was kind enough bring it in a few moments ago.” 

Holmes poured some tea for me as I sat down, and we enjoyed our breakfast in comfortable silence for a short time. I reached for the newspaper, hoping that I might summon the concentration required to read it and that the details of some interesting new case might be laid out there. But then I heard Holmes clear his throat, and I set the paper down at once. 

“It is fair to deduce,” he began, “that you remember what transpired last night, Watson?” 

The subtle lilt at the end of my name signaled to me that he wasn’t completely certain what I did or did not recall. I could not blame him, for alcohol did sometimes have the power to meddle with one’s memories if enough of it was consumed. Thank God that it had not seemed to affect me in such a way on this occasion (although the sharp pounding in my skull _was_ dreadfully annoying, to say the least).

“Yes, Holmes," I assured. "I do remember."

Holmes sighed with noticeable relief. “That's good. I had hoped..." He paused, and I saw his cheeks beginning to flush slightly. "I had hoped that we might have the chance to discuss our mutual feelings further, my dear fellow." 

It thrilled me sincerely to hear him speak about those feelings between us. Until several hours past, I had not really considered the possibility that Holmes experienced the same depth of feeling for me as I always had for him. A handful of times over the years, perhaps, I might have fancied that a certain glance or remark from him had meant more than he was letting on. But I had dismissed those musings just as swiftly as they entered my mind. Now, to consider that these may have been subtle hints on Holmes' part, it seemed as though that terrible weight on my soul was lifting more and more by the moment.

I smiled warmly at Holmes, hoping to dispel any shyness or uncertainty either of us may have felt.

"Of course," I said. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure." 

He returned my smile, and I almost gave in to the urge to kiss him once again. Instead, I reached my hand across the table and laid it over his own. 

"I don't have much experience in these matters, Watson," he confessed.

He lifted his eyes to mine for a moment, then lowered them to where our hands were joined.

"Truth be told, it hasn't always been... _easy_ for me to form an intimate relationship,” he said. “The last time I did was when I was at university, with a man that I had already known for quite some time as a friend. I didn't think I'd have that sort of opportunity again until the two of _us_ met, and we decided to move into these rooms at Baker Street together."

I squeezed my companion's hand, warmed greatly by his words.

"You don't know how delighted I am to hear you say that,” I told him. “I just wish that we could have been honest about ourselves _sooner,_ my dear Holmes! And I wish you hadn't felt as though a Russian ballet company would understand you better than I would." 

Holmes chuckled and said, "If I had known, and if you hadn't shown up when you did, I doubtlessly would have stuck with my explanation of hemophilia. But I weighed the situation at hand with what I knew about other ballets I had come across. I deduced that Rogozhin and the others would not be the sort of people to run to the police. Why should they, since they welcome people of all sorts into their midst without batting an eye?"

He huffed with frustration as he added, "Of course, the man's ability to be somewhat discrete about the matter is a bit vexing. But I am still confident that there will be no danger or repercussions upon either of us." 

Such concerns had not occurred to me in this instance, but now a familiar, uneasy tremor ran down my spine. What if Holmes was _wrong_ , I wondered? What if, by some accidental slip of the tongue, one of the dancers told the wrong person about Holmes and I? What would we do if the police _did_ come to our door? 

I had long ago accepted who I was, even if certain people around me did not understand or refused to do so. I had, throughout my life, experienced some level of attraction toward men and women. In university, I had also fallen for a wonderful person and poet who did not prescribe themselves to _either_ label.

But it had been a difficult path to tread--who I could trust, who I knew would simply see me as a fellow human being and not as some "abomination" or "sodomite," or whatever other malicious term that some members of society wished to throw around. A pervasive sense of fear lingered in the back of my mind, and I would often catch myself thinking, _Would today be the day that I was discovered, imprisoned... or worse?_

Perhaps it was simply foolish of me to think that Rogozhin or anyone else would speak of us outside of the ballet circle. Perhaps it was not a true cause for alarm, and neither Holmes or I would suffer for our actions. But I also did not wish to lull myself into a false sense of certainty, either. 

Holmes dragged me from my swirling thoughts. He had turned his hand over so that our palms touched; slowly, he laced our fingers together and gave me a comforting squeeze. The simple act and sensation made my heart swell. I had to swallow down the overwhelming pressure that crept up into my throat.

"Everything will be all right," said Holmes. "I promise you that, John."

Hearing my Christian name on his lips again broke my resolve, and a small, muffled sob escaped me. 

"How can you be so _sure_?" I implored him. 

God, how I wanted to believe my dear Holmes... to believe that our private lives could remain our own wonderful secret and that _nothing_ would stop us from being together. But I knew better--I knew how society would look upon a relationship like ours, and I suspected that he knew it just as well as I did. How could he ever promise that the truth would not find its way to the wrong ears, that we would not one day be arrested, sentenced to prison, or even put to _death_?

"I'm certain, my dear fellow, because when it comes down to it, I don't give much of a damn about what this dreadful society thinks," Holmes declared firmly. "For years I've tried to conform to its rules, its 'proper' ways of feeling and thinking and living. But it's driven me absolutely mad, and..."

He stopped to take a deep, steadying breath.

"And I'm _tired_ of it," he went on. "I was tired of having to conceal how I felt about you for so long, convinced that it would never be reciprocated. What an unobservant fool I was, truly! But I thought to myself last night, if I could _finally_ take this burden off of my shoulders, could tell _someone_ who would not pass judgment upon me... then perhaps I might stop feeling so damned miserable for once.”

Holmes’ features softened, his eyes glowing with a warmth and passion that pierced to my core.

“And now that I can lay myself completely before you, can toss aside the 'cold, unfeeling mask', all that _matters_ to me is being here with _you.”_

My grip tightened reflexively upon Holmes' hand. I did not know how to answer--I feared I might break apart if I tried. Good Lord, how I wished that I could possess the same fiery courage and bold defiance as my dear one! While I _had_ come to terms with myself over the years, I still could not entirely shake the terror rooted in my heart, knowing how the laws and views of so many others perceived me--perceived _us_ \--as unnatural. But my trust and devotion for Holmes would not waver. This, at least, I knew I must be able to place my faith upon.

So even with that terror weighing so solidly upon me, threatening to unsettle my nerves and my hope, this was something I vowed that I would do everything to fight for.

I unlaced my fingers from Holmes’ grip, long enough to pull his hand forward and press a soft kiss to his knuckles. 

_All that matters,_ I thought, _is believing in each other and refusing to let go. And I will_ never _let this man go, so help me God..._

* * *

The appearance of Gabrielle Valladon that night was, of course, quite a shock to myself and Holmes.

We ended up spending most of the day scouring through the agony columns and other promising aspects of the local papers, but our efforts in that quarter were not fruitful. Frustrated, Holmes alternated between pacing our rooms with his clay pipe pressed firmly between his lips and taking up his violin with a deft, gloomy vigor.

I eventually took some laudanum for my headache; it had eased somewhat on its own, but had still proven itself as a hindrance. Growing weary of other activities, I then began to sketch some rather hideous-looking creations on a piece of scrap paper. Occasionally Holmes would stop in his pacing and come stand beside me, touching my hand or shoulder and inquiring into my efforts.

When I presented to him a somewhat lopsided flower I had just completed, he smiled and said, "I think your use of tones needs a bit of work, but otherwise, a good effort."

We had just begun to settle down for the evening--I by recording some thoughts in my journal next to the fireplace, and Holmes by playing a livelier piece on his violin--when Mrs. Hudson announced the arrival of a cab driver with a most unusual package. 

Gabrielle had obviously suffered quite an ordeal, for she had been found in the Thames by the cabbie and was shivering horribly. My medical instincts kicked in at once and I moved to bring her up to our rooms at Baker Street. It was not difficult to conclude that she must have hit her head and suffered a mild concussion, resulting in temporary loss of memory. I could see the intricate wheels in Holmes' mind turning as he exerted his powers of observation to these unusual circumstances.

He attempted to ask the young lady a series of questions, inquiring about her name, nationality, and other matters. We soon came to find that she was French; my knowledge of the language was fairly limited, but thanks to his ancestry and upbringing, Holmes was quite fluent in it by contrast. It amazed me how he could switch between languages with such graceful, practiced ease.

When Holmes discovered a wedding band on Gabrielle's person and mentioned the name Emil, a flicker of recognition seemed to pass through the young lady.

" _Pensez, madame, s'il vous plaît_ ," Holmes urged her. " _Êtes-vous en danger? Ou votre mari?"_

But Gabrielle could not answer, shaking her head in distress. I patted her arm soothingly and looked up at Holmes. 

"Perhaps her memory will return in the morning," I said. "For now, I think we should let her rest." 

Mrs. Hudson choose that moment to enter the room, bearing a tray with one of her fine teapots and three small cups. 

"Oh, dash!" she exclaimed abruptly. The tray rattled in her grasp as she halted her movements. "Will _someone_ remove this violin, please?" 

While Holmes continued to watch over Gabrielle, I hurried over to take the violin and bow off of the dining table and put them in their case. 

"I'm sorry to put this upon you, Mrs. Hudson," I said, "but after this young lady has had some tea, would you mind helping her out of her wet clothes?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded and said, "Of course, sir, that's not a problem."

I sighed appreciatively. "Oh, good, thank you very much! I'm sure there must be an old nightgown of mine that she can wear. I'd be happy for her to stay in my room for the night, too."

Mrs. Hudson gave me a piercing look that might have felled someone with a weaker constitution. But I was fortunate to only break out in an uncomfortable fit of sweating. 

"I'll sleep on the couch, of course," I rushed to assure her.

"See that you do, Doctor," she replied. "There certainly won't be those kind of liberties taken in _my_ house!"

After Mrs. Hudson left to find some extra blankets for our guest, I shot a helpless look in Holmes' direction. He merely smirked at me, which did absolutely nothing to soothe my embarrassment. After a moment, he came over to help pour the tea. 

"Well, she has to sleep _somewhere_ ," I protested, "and I'm certainly not some cad or low-life who would stoop to taking advantage of a vulnerable young woman!"

"Oh, you don't need to convince _me_ of that, my dear doctor," Holmes said, as he set a full teacup onto one of the saucers. "It is only natural for Mrs. Hudson to show concern for the young woman's wellbeing, considering what has happened thus far. She may have been walking alone in London or with her husband, was attacked by someone or even _several_ someones that she does not know, and is now forced to stay under the care of two men whom she has also never met before. Such a situation would merit _some_ degree of alarm from any sane, rational individual.”

I mumbled my agreement, but I was still a bit put out at the insinuation that _I_ of all people would attempt to do anything uncouth. Holmes, in the meantime, went to hand the teacup over to Gabrielle. She accepted it hesitantly, her hands trembling all the while; at Holmes' calm insistence, she lifted the cup to her lips and took a couple of brief sips.

By the time Mrs. Hudson returned, Gabrielle had finished the tea and was beginning to look just a touch less pale in the face. Mrs. Hudson shortly took her to my room to assist her out of her torn, damp dress and find a suitable set of dry clothes.

Gabrielle seemed to be faring quite well, I thought, even with all of the present circumstances taken into account. She did not have significant difficulty with walking or speaking, and there was also no dilation of the pupils, which would have concerned me even more greatly. As of now, the foremost issue stemmed from her memory loss. Although it was not strictly necessary, I wished to keep her awake for just a few hours to make certain that no other serious symptoms presented themselves. 

Eventually Mrs. Hudson retired to her own rooms, and Holmes soon bid me goodnight as well. He had that particular gleam in his eyes that I knew all too well--the events of the evening still raced feverishly in his mind, and I doubted that sleep would come easily to him in such a heightened state. I would discover him once again pacing the length of our flat with long, deliberate strides or hear the quick, piercing notes of his violin resound from the sitting room. 

As for myself, I would be settling down to spend a portion of my night keeping watch over our unexpected and deeply shaken guest.


	3. Romance for Violin and Orchestra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Musical inspo.: "Romance for Violin and Orchestra No. 1 in G, Op. 40," by Ludwig von Beethoven)

I'd like to say that the rest of the evening passed by uneventfully for all of us--but that would be a blatant falsehood on my part. 

Mrs. Hudson was able to procure a plain white nightgown for Gabrielle. Once the young lady had wrapped herself up within the blankets, she ceased to tremble from the cold and began settling down more easily. I pulled one of the hard wooden chairs from the sitting room into my bedroom, so that I could observe Gabrielle from a respectable distance. My medical bag lay close at hand in case my stethoscope or another important instrument proved useful. 

"I'm here to look after you, Gabrielle," I told her gently. "If you are able to stay awake for me for a little while, I'll make sure that you're not showing other troubling symptoms from your ordeal."

Gabrielle looked at me intensely for a moment from her half-seated position on the bed, as if she were gathering all of her concentration to try to process my words. Then, with a small, frustrated sigh, she leaned back against the headboard. She remained in that position for some time, casting her eyes about the room, as if her memories might somehow materialize from one of the bookcases or picture frames.

It was already half past one o'clock when I rose to grab one of the books from my small writing desk. I glanced at the spine and nodded--yes, some Oscar Wilde would do just splendidly. Perhaps, I thought, Gabrielle might appreciate hearing some poetry while we were both still awake.

She had shifted her attention to me as I moved about the room; now she appeared quite interested in the book that I held. With a smile, I sat back down in my chair and flipped through the pages until I came to a familiar piece. I cleared my throat and read aloud:

_"_ _Out_ _of the mid-wood’s twilight_  
 _Into the meadow’s dawn,_  
 _Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,_  
 _Flashes my Faun!_

_He skips through the copses singing,_   
_And his shadow dances along,_   
_And I know not which I should follow,_   
_Shadow or song!_

_O Hunter, snare me his shadow!_   
_O Nightingale, catch me his strain!_   
_Else moonstruck with music and madness_   
_I track him in vain!"_

I heard a small, choked-off sound in front of me as I finished the poem. I looked up and saw that Gabrielle had buried her face in her hands. I rushed toward her, fumbling with the book, but the slim volume thumped loudly to the floor in my haste. I left it there, kneeling beside the bed and gripping Gabrielle's arm. 

"Are you all right?" I asked. "Good heavens, my dear, I'm sorry if I've upset you!"

Gabrielle shook her head forcefully. She clutched at the edge of one of the blankets around her. 

"Emil... _where_ is Emil?" she begged. "Do you know where he is? Please, I _must_ find him!"

I settled myself on the edge of the bed and wrapped my arms around Gabrielle's shoulders. She fell into my embrace at once, heaving for breath, as her tears gushed freely. The two of us sat in that fashion for a long time--I tried to whisper my reassurances that Holmes and I would reunite her with her husband, while her body shuddered from the effort of her grief.

I didn't let go until the tears finally subsided, and Gabrielle had slipped into the spell of an inevitable, somewhat uneasy sleep.

* * *

The next morning found me in a state of agony. As promised, I had eventually retired to the couch in the sitting room and attempted to make myself as comfortable as possible. And by that, I mean that I tried not to contort my spine into _quite_ so terrible a shape. My efforts, however, proved to be in vain--when Mrs. Hudson came in to draw back our curtains, I instantly registered the stiffness and pain in my lower vertebrae.

I must bless our landlady for alleviating my suffering. Her knee pressed into the small of my back gave me the relief I needed to stand up again. My spine still creaked in protest at my movements about the room, but a brisk walk later on would surely ease the rest of my discomfort. 

As I reached for the back of my neck and gently rubbed at a spot near the top of my spine, I suddenly recalled the tumultuous events of last night. I turned to Mrs. Hudson and asked, “Oh, would you mind checking on our patient? I do hope she was able to stay asleep for the whole night.” 

Mrs. Hudson nodded and went down the hall to my room. I took a moment to stretch myself, bending down to touch my toes. I sighed as the muscles in my back and arms released some further tension. 

I straightened up just as Mrs. Hudson cried out, “Doctor Watson, she’s gone!” 

_“Gone?”_ I exclaimed.

I spun around and rushed to my bedroom like a jockey's horse at full gallop. The door was ajar when I approached, just enough that I could stick my head across the threshold and peer inside. Mrs. Hudson was right—Gabrielle _had_ disappeared! All that spoke of her presence at all were the thick, rumpled blankets on the bed and the Wilde volume I had carelessly abandoned on the floor.

Good Lord, I thought, who knew _where_ the young lady might have gone in her delicate state? What if she suffered another fall? I knew Holmes must be informed of this matter at once. We couldn't let Gabrielle find herself in harm's way for a second time. 

"Holmes?" I called out, heading for his bedroom. " _Holmes?_ "

I flung open the door and found myself immediately regretting the decision to find Holmes. There, lying upon the bed with the sheets draped with the utmost care over her, was the young woman in question. She did not stir at my entrance, for she still must have been quite unconscious. A quick glance informed me that her nightgown had not been removed, but this offered little reassurance to me. 

As I stepped back, a cold weight dropped into my stomach. This couldn't be what it looked like... _surely_ Holmes wouldn't try to... ?

"Well, I _never!"_ I heard Mrs. Hudson exclaim behind me. 

I prepared to express similar sentiments, when the door in the sitting room creaked open and I perceived a familiar set of footsteps. I whirled around again and caught sight of Holmes. He must have gone out at some point, quite possibly during the wee hours of the night while the rest of us slumbered. He had put on his deerstalker cap and gloves, and he carried what appeared to be a large valise in one hand. I stormed my way down the hall toward him, with Mrs. Hudson close at my heels. 

"Would you care to explain," I said, through clenched teeth, "why in God's name that young lady is sleeping in _your_ bed, Holmes?" 

He turned to look at me with an indifferent sniff. 

"Perhaps the better question here, my dear fellow," he countered, "is whether or not I slept in the same bed as the young lady? And the answer to that would be an emphatic _no._ I am not in the habit of taking advantage of vulnerable young women who are married, nor do I intend to ever do such a thing. I spent the majority of my evening in search of _this."_

He held up the valise, tapping the front of it with his other gloved hand for emphasis.

"I scoured over half of London before I hit upon the right trail," he added, "and I am certainly glad to have returned triumphant from my ventures."

My anger softened and dissolved. Here I had been ready to assume the worst, and now, I realized what a fool I was. Of course Holmes wouldn't engage in such reprehensible behavior... why should I ever think otherwise? Some sense of breached decorum must have clouded my judgment, if only for a few moments.

"How, then, did the young woman come to be in your bed?” I asked.

"It happened rather late last night,” explained Holmes, “and you had already retired to the couch and fallen into a somewhat uncomfortable doze. I was--as you might expect--still quite deep in thought, when I heard someone enter my quarters. I turned and saw at once that it was Gabrielle. She initially mistook me for her husband, and when I told her I was not, she became agitated and began asking where Emil was. I did manage to calm her down, but it took some doing... and by that time, she had managed to tire herself out so much that she had collapsed onto my bed. So, I helped pull the covers around her without much more fuss. How practical, after all, would it have been to carry her to another room? As I was adjusting the sheets, I finally noticed a set of numbers imprinted on the palm of her right hand."

"Ah... the card with the smudge of green ink on the back!" I realized. "The numbers must have come off on the young lady's hand when she fell into the river. So _that_ must have been what eventually led you to this valise. It _is_ hers, I presume?”

Holmes smiled at me, and as he removed his gloves, he said, "Excellent, my dear fellow! Yes, indeed. Now pass me that knife, won't you?"

I handed him a butter knife from the table without comment. I barely had time to register what he actually _needed_ a knife for at a time such as this, when he suddenly jammed the flat edge of it into the seam of one of the locks on the valise. He bent the lock forward until it snapped open. 

"For heaven's sake, Holmes!" I cried. "You... you can't just _break_ into a woman's valise like that!" 

Holmes bent the other lock open swiftly, then looked up at me and arched an eyebrow. 

"There's no sense worrying about propriety when a young woman and her husband could both be in significant danger, Watson," he said. "I mean to find answers, and I shall do that using whatever means are necessary."

I decided it best not to argue about the matter further. Holmes had certainly done these sort of things before--more than once I had, in fact, aided him in burglary, theft, and other smaller crimes for the sake of bringing criminals to justice. Who was I to judge him now? 

"All right," I said with a sigh. "Let’s see what we can find, then."

* * *

The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity.

Gabrielle awakened shortly after Holmes and I began searching through her valise. Her memory had returned, a fact for which I was thankful, and she was able to tell us more about herself and her husband, Emil Valladon.

She explained to us that he was working for some company known as Jonah Limited. She had been receiving letters from Emil fairly regularly, with the address marked as Ashdown Street. When their correspondence halted abruptly, Gabrielle suspected that something terrible had happened. She traveled from Brussels to London to check on Emil. But when she went to the address from his letters, she found only an empty building. It appeared to have been abandoned for quite some time, and her husband was, of course, nowhere to be found.

The whole affair was suspicious and troubling. Holmes decided that the best course would be for the three of us to visit Ashdown Street together. In just a brief time, we had all bundled ourselves into a carriage and were whisking across London to investigate the strange building that Gabrielle Valladon had described. 

I must say that it was truly a sorry sight. We were greeted by a crumbling brick facade, with paint cracked and peeling in dozens of places. The front windows had been painted over in a sickly greenish-brown color; at the right angle, I could see how the mid-morning light captured ghostly outlines of the lettering which had once been present on the glass. Occasionally a few passersby came into view, mainly trades people judging from some of the tools they carried, but they all gave the building a wide berth. 

We stepped out of the carriage and collectively stared up at the building for a moment. I did not care for the somewhat unsettling aura that it gave off--as if something or someone might be lurking inside, waiting for the chance to snap us all up without trace.

I turned to glance at Holmes. His lips were pursed in concentration, and beneath his cap, I could see his eyes carefully scanning the length and breadth of the dilapidated structure before us.

At last, he tossed a smirk in my direction and rested his cane casually against his shoulder. I knew that smirk, God help me, and I already didn't like what he must be planning. 

"Well, come on," he said. "Let's find a way inside, shall we?"

* * *

As I feared, Holmes led us to a more... _creative_ route into the abandoned Ashdown building.

It was just as well that I did not have a fear of heights. Still, climbing up onto the roof was not an entirely welcome idea. Gabrielle did not seem to mind this fact very much, although she did clutch anxiously at her parasol as we hurried up a rusted old ladder and made our way across the roof toward a barred opening.

"Aha!" cried Holmes. He stuck his hand through a gap in the bars and pointed downward. "Just as I thought. This is the space which was visible from the road."

He went to work quickly. He began pulling sections of his cane apart--it was a marvelous contraption I had found in a speciality shop last year and gifted to him on his birthday. I smiled, remembering how thoroughly pleased he was by it. I hardly ever saw him go out without that cane by his side anymore.

Holmes found the knife, chisel, and hammer sections, and then he got to work on the bars. For the next several moments, the only sounds were of the harsh slides of metal against metal. I was kneeling next to Holmes, trying to keep my weight on my good knee. Our climb on the ladder had not boded well for my old war wounds--my left leg and shoulder each gave a dull, familiar twinge. But I tried steadfastly to ignore this as I watched my companion work.

I spared a look toward Gabrielle during the minutes that passed. Her squall of apprehension seemed to have cleared. Now she observed Holmes' movements with a calm, determined gleam in her eyes. I prayed that we would be able to reunite her with Emil soon. Not knowing where he might be, or whether he was, in fact, still _alive_ somewhere, was a weight that no one should have to bear. I knew that if I was in the same position--if _Holmes_ was the one missing--I would do everything within my power to find him. By God, I would tear the whole of London down if I had to!

The first two bars were soon cut through. Holmes handed me back the knife, which I quickly fitted into place on the cane. He took the hammer and chisel and worked a notch into the bottom of the third bar. When he finished with this, he passed me the other two tools. He then grabbed the bars with both hands and pushed hard. The metal groaned loudly, resisting his efforts, but the makeshift hinge continued to move inch by inch as he leaned his weight forward.

Soon, the opening lay unobstructed for us. Holmes swung himself onto the ledge and dropped down into the room first. He landed gracefully on his feet, and soon waved at us to follow him when he straightened up. 

"Would you hold this, please, Doctor?" asked Gabrielle.

She passed me her parasol, which I accepted readily. I watched her mount the opening with careful, steady movements and then, with a deep breath, she fell through. The ends of her pale dress fanned out around her, the sound of fabric rippling briefly in the air.

I breathed a sigh of relief as Gabrielle landed on her feet beside Holmes. She did stumble for just a moment as her balance tipped toward the right, but Holmes reached out and held her arm. 

"Ah, _merci_ ," she said with an appreciative smile. "I'm fine now."

I dropped Gabrielle's parasol down after her. She caught it and said up to me, _"Et merci beaucoup,_ Doctor!"

I nodded at her, then I ascended onto the small ledge to finally began lowering myself down. However, at that moment, a piercing spasm went up my left leg and locked my half-bent knee into place. The pain caught me so off guard that I halted immediately, suspended halfway through the opening. My arms trembled from the effort of maintaining my grip on either side of the rough stone.

"What's the matter, Watson?" asked Holmes. The worried edge in his tone was not lost on my ears, even in my awkward and painful state.

"It's my leg," I gasped. "One of those... horrible spasms. _Damn_ that Jezail bullet and the... the grief it's caused me. God, how _bloody_..." I gritted my teeth, desperately trying to rein in the other choice words that wanted to surge forth from my lips. "... inconvenient!" 

Holmes moved closer toward the opening, stopping below me with his arms outstretched. His eyes sought out mine, and the compassion I saw in them gave me some measure of comfort and strength. 

"It's all right," Holmes assured me. "Can you move your leg at all?" 

I shifted my pain-stricken leg experimentally. I grunted as the spasm tightened, but I clenched my jaw and pushed through it. My movements were small, slow, and deliberate--I somehow managed to straighten my knee out completely, and then stretch my leg further through, until it hung down into the room below. 

"Good," Holmes said. "You're doing good, dear fellow. Don't forget to lean on your good leg to give yourself a bit of leverage. Try to push off from the ledge as you're coming down, but _slowly_." 

I did as he instructed me, and moved my other leg until I could plant my foot against the ledge. Then, with a long, soothing breath, I let go of the opening and pushed off from the ledge into Holmes' waiting arms. My damned leg buckled under me when I hit the ground, and I scrabbled for a hold on Holmes' shoulders as I stumbled in his solid embrace.

I've always said that Holmes possesses more strength than his lean frame would otherwise suggest, and this certainly still held true. His powerful arms were looped around my waist, and his hands pressed securely into the back of my coat. He breathed out a relieved sigh into the space between us.

"I've got you!" I heard him say.

We pulled back and stared at each other for a moment. Then in a deeper, more strained voice, he said, "I've got you, Watson."

My hands squeezed him more firmly as the unexpected intimacy of our position registered in my mind. His body was pressed so deliciously near to mine, the warmth of him calming and irresistible. We stood close enough that I could easily lean forward and erase the remaining distance between us. A chord of desire plucked deep in my stomach as my eyes traveled down to his lips. 

God above, I yearned to pull him into my arms and kiss him as I had before. I yearned to hear him moan and give himself over to my affections. But I couldn't allow that... not with Gabrielle in the same room, standing just a few feet away from us. Holmes clearly had the same thoughts in mind, if the hints of pink blooming across his cheeks were anything to go by. 

At last the two of us separated, and I almost groaned at the loss of his presence next to me. Sometime, I vowed that I would try and prove to him beyond words how much he meant to me. I wanted him to know exactly how much the slightest touch or the briefest look from him set my nerves aflame. More than anything I wanted to make up for the five long years in which our yearning had gone unspoken, neither of us confident enough to act on those feelings. 

_Soon, you giddy old fool,_ I told myself, _just have a little patience. We'll get our chance to be alone soon... I know we will. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem that Watson recites is "In the Forest," published in Oscar Wilde's book "Poems" in 1881.
> 
> And yes, one of my many headcanons is that Watson gave Holmes that badass cane. <3


	4. (TPLOSH Fic Photos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some cool images I put together and shared to my Tumblr! I used quotes from the second chapter to help give them a nice aesthetic. :D  
> .  
> (Images of Robert Stephens and Colin Blakely, and of pride flags, retrieved from Google. Edited with Photoshop Mix.)


End file.
